EnCounters 2: Counterintelligence
by MizJoely
Summary: Sequel to "Counterintuitive", in which Sherlock Holmes returns to Molly Hooper's flat after a four-month absence to find that things have changed irrevocably between them.


Molly Hooper had been missing two things from her life for nearly four months: Sherlock Holmes and her period.

She was intensely aware of the first every minute of her waking life (and far too many minutes of her sleeping one as well), but didn't notice the second until it was too late to do anything about it (not very easily, at least), had she so desired (which, for the record, she _didn't_; even if she was a lapsed Catholic she'd still been raised a certain way and wouldn't even dream of ending her pregnancy out of respect for her long-deceased parents beliefs).

At the beginning of the fourth month, Sherlock materialized inside her flat in the middle of the night, although her period had still not made an appearance. Confronted by his gaunt, troubled face as she switched on the bedside light, she had exactly three seconds to decide whether or not this was the right time to tell him about her "interesting condition" before his lips crashed down on hers and her mind said _fuck it, he'll know the second he touches your body, enjoy this while it lasts._

**oOo**

It wasn't that she normally lost track of her menstrual cycle; far from it. She was usually clockwork regular and even if she wasn't, the cramps that accompanied the heaviest flow days were enough to remind her that yes, her body was busy discarding all the tissue and blood it had stored up in anticipation of a Little Stranger taking up a temporary, nine-month residence in her uterus.

Such a vacuum should have been – _would_ have been – immediately noticed under any other circumstances. But she'd been far too distracted by the role she was forced to play in the post-Sherlock-jumping-from-the-roof-of-St.-Bart's world she now inhabited to notice the glaring discrepancy in her body's otherwise well-ordered routine. Too busy playing the grieving, feelings-unrequited (as far as everyone else knew) acquaintance of the currently discredited Consulting Detective.

His access to Bart's had been investigated, his cases even more so. Fortunately for herself, the hospital administration and, most importantly in Molly's mind, DI Lestrade, all of the cases the supposed fraud had helped to solve turned out to be unimpeachable. All the evidence was shown to be real, witnesses resworn and proven to have told the truth (much to the frustration of a series of defense lawyers eager to free their supposedly innocent clients who'd been "set up" by the "fake detective"), and all criminals remained behind bars. Where, as far as Molly Hooper was concerned, they'd bloody well always belonged.

It was frustrating – no, it was downright _infuriating_ – to be the only person who not only knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Sherlock Holmes was just as brilliant as he'd always claimed to be (not modest, never modest, that man, she thought with affectionate exasperation), but also that he was…not quite as dead as he seemed to be.

Oh, there were certainly others who believed in him just as firmly as she did – his brother Mycroft, working quietly behind the scenes to ensure that his brother's reputation was restored (and who quite possibly knew the truth but since he didn't ask Molly she didn't ask him, either). His landlady, Mrs. Hudson, who'd taken up a blogging crusade on her (supposedly former) tenant's behalf (after John taught her how to actually use a computer for more than reading gossip and checking out medical symptoms).

John. John Watson, the man who refused to stop believing in spite of that heart-breaking last conversation the two men had had, which Sherlock, typically, had not shared with her but John had. John, who'd come to visit her in the morgue, to ask her – beg her, really – to tell him something, anything that would give him hope that his friend wasn't really dead. Barring that (which, of course, she wanted to tell him since it was true but knew for his own safety he could never find out until Sherlock himself told him), barring the (to him) impossible, he wanted to know if a tox screen had been run; had Sherlock been drugged? Was there any sign, any at all, of drugs, a tumor, something to explain the seemingly inexplicable?

"I know Moriarty had something to do with it," he'd said to her that terrible, terrible day after Sherlock's "funeral." "It had to be part of that sick bastard's plans, to make Sherlock pretend that all those twisted lies were true."

The look on his face had broken Molly's heart all over again, worse than the quiet stoicism he'd shown at the cemetery when the casket supposedly holding Sherlock's mortal remains was lowered into the ground. Worse than the way he'd looked after Sherlock's "body" was brought into her morgue for a post-mortem that had never actually occurred.

She hated herself for putting such a good man through so much pain, and even found it in her to hate Sherlock (just a little) for doing the same, but since she knew about the snipers Jim Moriarty had put on John, Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade, she also knew who she really, truly hated. One wasn't supposed to speak ill of the dead, but no one said anything about how one _thought_ about the dead, and her thoughts regarding Jim Moriarty were never, ever anything but ill.

How could she think of him with anything but loathing and fear, the man who had used her to taunt Sherlock during the awful bombing incidents? The man who had pretended to date her and then played gay just so Sherlock could dismiss him, and humiliate her in the process? Oh, she was certain her humiliation was simply an added bonus as far as that evil monster was concerned, but it still burned. More, perhaps, than if it had been a deliberate attempt to hurt her. Somehow, being collateral damage was so much worse.

In spite of all the guilt and anger and self-hatred she was feeling, she managed to not give anything away. She continued to not give anything away in spite of her soul-deep desire to blurt out the truth to John in the days after Sherlock finally left her flat and started his crusade against Jim (who, disturbingly enough, had literally shot himself in the head to keep Sherlock from using him to call off the snipers – and even more disturbingly, _whose body_ _hadn't been on the roof _when the police went up to inspect the premises after Sherlock's "demise") and his criminal network.

"I'm sorry, John," she'd said that day in the morgue, that awful, awful day, meaning every word. She really, truly was sorry she couldn't help him. "I don't know anything." (_Liar!_ her mind screamed. _Molly Kathleen Elizabeth Hooper, you are _such_ a_ _liar!) _"But," she'd found herself compelled to add, laying a hand over his where it rested on the counter in the morgue, "I just want you to know…I don't believe it, either. That he was a fake. I think…I think you're right, it was part of Moriarty's plan, that he forced him to do it, but I'm sorry, I know for a fact that there was no medical reason for Sherlock to…to do what he did."

It was as much as Sherlock had given her permission to say, as much as she dared to say, but fortunately the tears (real tears, Molly Hooper wasn't physically capable of fake tears no matter what the circumstances) in her eyes and the catch in her voice convinced John to let it go. She found herself engulfed in his embrace, and allowed him to comfort her even as she tried to comfort him.

That had been in the first month after Sherlock's "death," when she was still struggling to prove to her superiors that her work hadn't been compromised by his presence in her morgue and lab. It wasn't until the second month that she was finally allowed to resume her full-time staff position, after someone (she always suspected Mycroft, the man with the "minor position in the British government") had quietly intervened on her behalf. Why would anyone else bother to do so – although, she'd fretted, why would Mycroft Holmes do so, either? Unless, she finally concluded, it was because restoring her reputation was a step on the path to restoring Sherlock's.

It was one of the many things she intended to ask Sherlock about when she next saw him, but by the time he did show up in her flat, four months into his "death," she'd finally noticed her lack of a period, gone to her gynecologist, and had her panicky suspicions confirmed.

She was four months pregnant. Her birth control implant had apparently loosed itself from its position in her uterus wall and come out at some unknown point in time. Well, some point in time before that memorable last day with Sherlock Holmes hiding out in her flat.

They'd had sex twice that morning before she reluctantly forced herself to go to work for her half-day, and twice more that afternoon and evening before he slipped out of her flat and vanished into the underworld he would need to inhabit until Moriarty (_dead or alive, no sign of him either way_) and his web of evil (_she knew it was a melodramatic name but stubbornly called it that inside her own head_) were taken down. Permanently.

She was still in a mild state of shock when she returned home from her late-afternoon appointment. She still couldn't believe she'd been so distracted by things exterior to her life – peripheral to it, many would wrongly assume – that she'd completely missed what was happening to her own body. It seemed obvious now; not only the missed periods, but the subtle enlargement of her breasts (her bra, she noted as she examined her half-naked body critically in the mirror, was definitely too small now; how could she have not noticed the one thing she'd been praying for since she was fourteen years old?) and the slight rounding and hardening of her abdomen.

She felt stupid. She saw but she did not _observe_, as Sherlock would snappishly remark.

If he was here to remark on anything at all.

Oh, God, Sherlock…with shaking hands she finished removing her underclothes and rushed into the shower. Turning the water on as hot as she could stand it, she stood under the spray and finally gave in to the tears that had been threatening ever since her doctor oh-so-gently informed her that it appeared her implant had come out – and what the consequence of that action in combination with otherwise unprotected sex had been.

These things happened, she knew; the same doctor had warned her about it when she had it put in. She was supposed to check her strings and had done so religiously – until her world suddenly turned upside down. During her annual check-up six months prior to her sexual encounter with Sherlock Holmes (_God, that still gave her such a primal shiver of pleasure whenever she thought __about it, even now, bawling her eyes out over the mess she'd managed to make of her life_), everything had been firmly in place. A frantic flip through her Daytimer (she still carried one even though everyone else in the world had switched over to PDA's and then Smartphones) and found the red check mark that indicated she'd last examined herself just about one month prior to That Day.

Which didn't help her from beating herself up about it, but it did narrow things down even more. Sometime between That Day and approximately thirty days prior, her implant had come loose and fallen out, probably to be flushed, unnoticed, down the toilet.

Or perhaps it had gone down the shower drain, was even now lodged there, she thought with a touch of hysteria, preventing the pipes from being impregnated by the hot water spraying down on her…

"Get a grip, Molly," she ordered herself sternly as the hysteria continued to bubble and churn in mind and body, taking deep breaths to try and calm her jangled nerves and churning stomach.

Her stomach…hmm, at least she hadn't had to endure morning sickness, although of course that would have given things away a lot quicker. Still, she found herself grateful that she hadn't gone through the vomiting stage; she hated throwing up, had always prided herself on her strong stomach (vital to a career in post-mortem examinations of bodies in various stages of decomposition).

No, her body had just decided to quietly wait for her to notice things, to stop being distracted by worries about Sherlock and John Watson and DI Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, had patiently waited for her to put her attention back on herself.

Which got her exactly nowhere; she'd never, ever put herself first, not ever. She'd been young when her mother died, barely twelve when the police officers had arrived with the news of the horrific car accident that had taken her and Molly's aunt on their way to the cinema for girl's night out. Her father had become her focus, and when he passed away from cancer shortly after her twenty-first birthday, she'd shifted her attention to her medical studies. Yes, technically that was paying attention to herself, but she'd allowed it to consume all of her waking moments, taking no time out for parties or girl's night out (how she _loathed_ that term now) or walks in the park or shopping trips with girlfriends. Or dating. Or sex, except for one drunken encounter the night she graduated.

Judging by how disappointed she'd felt when her partner, an equally drunken med school grad, came to his own satisfaction without giving her any, sex really wasn't worth the effort.

Then she'd begun her job at St. Bart's and discovered that her feeble attempts at dating were so inept that the only men she could seem to attract were, in her co-worker Mena's words, pathetic losers (of course, she'd softened that blunt declaration by declaring them _not worthy_ of Molly, but still). Even Jim from IT had, naturally enough, turned out to be a homicidal maniac. She was glad she'd never had sex with him, although she still found herself wondering, at odd moments, if he actually was gay or if that had all been a put-on for Sherlock's sake.

Sherlock. Everything always came back to him, and now she'd let him down, something she'd sworn she would never do. Oh, it wasn't the same as giving away his secret, but still. He'd had unprotected sex with her based on faulty data, and all because she'd failed to check on the status of her implant for an entire month.

What had possessed her? She usually checked it out every couple of weeks; why had she missed doing so for a full month? She couldn't blame the current situation, the Sherlock Situation; all that had come after.

Really, though, what did it matter? She'd failed to check, and that failure had led to this moment, when the Sherlock Situation became infinitely more complicated.

Because she was unsure about a great many things, but absolutely certain that Sherlock Holmes had never intended – or wanted – to become the father of her child.

**oOo**

All of that had led – inevitably, it seemed to her whirling, tumultuous thoughts – up to this very minute. The minute Sherlock Holmes returned to her flat and took up a seat on the edge of her bed, bending down to press his lips against hers in a desperate, longing kiss that she returned with just as much desperation and longing, tears prickling in the backs of her eyes in anticipation – dread – of the moment he realized how terribly she'd betrayed him.

His hand had been cupping her breast through the thin fabric of her nightshirt as he kissed her, the one that wasn't supporting him as he leaned over her. It moved, trailing down her ribcage to her abdomen…and stopped. He seemed to stop breathing as well, his lips no longer moving against hers, and she slid her hands away from his shoulders, eyes downcast as she waited for the recriminations to begin.

**oOoOoOoOo**

It had been a very trying four months for Sherlock Holmes. First he'd spent eight days caged in Molly Hooper's flat (_although that last day had been well worth the tedium and tension and restlessness of the first seven_); then he'd found his way to one of the many hidden locations in which he'd squirreled away the materials for disguise and swift removal of his self from London or the UK if necessary (passports, driver's ID, National Health cards, all in false names, along with hair color, clothing Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be caught dead wearing and all the other paraphernalia he'd had occasional cause to use in the past) and changed his look entirely. He'd ruthlessly chopped off his signature black curls, colored them a gingery brown (to match his inexplicably lighter eyebrows), and donned a scruffy t-shirt featuring a rock band decades old (but still touring) and a pair of rather faded and tattered blue jeans. Scuffed brown work boots, dark brown contact lenses and deliberately cultivated facial stubble completed the transformation.

He was now Derek Jacobs (a nod to one of his favorite classically trained actors, Derek Jacoby), pint-swilling casual laborer and small-time drug dealer.

The perfect persona to attract the notice of those in charge of the more organized drug trade.

Including the branch run by Moriarty and his right-hand man, one former military man known now as Seb Moran, although his real name was Sebastian Morgan.

All he had to do was make his patient way up the ladder and he would have those two right where he wanted them.

The problem was, Sherlock Holmes had never been patient.

Thus his current reason for seeking out Molly Hooper, whom he'd resolutely determined not to endanger with his presence until all this was over and done with and it was safe for him to emerge, with her joining his inner circle as his romantic partner, just as John was without a doubt going to resume his place as his detecting partner.

He wasn't injured, not shot or stabbed or even pepper-sprayed. He hadn't turned to her for medical assistance. No, he'd fallen prey to something far worse, in his mind.

Sentiment.

He missed her.

Oh, he tried to tell himself it was because he was bored, but knew the truth. His persona was working so well that he was moving up that ladder with a smoothness he'd predicted but not actually anticipated (_things rarely went to plan, especially under such delicate circumstances_), such that, right now, this night (_and he estimated, for the next three days_), he needed "Derek Jacobs" to go missing. Just long enough for certain concerns to be raised, for certain parties to be informed, and for the next stage of his carefully constructed stratagem to be implemented.

All of that was part of the plan. Hiding out in Molly's flat again wasn't; he had a bolt hole all ready for him, full of cigarettes (he'd started smoking again once he "died" and wouldn't touch a nicotine patch until he could "live" again) and a laptop and a pile of reading material that he'd put off going through for exactly such a situation – a time when he needed to hole up for several days without showing his face in London for so much as a packet of crisps at the shop down the street. Which his bolt hole also held a good supply of.

Instead, he'd found himself loitering outside Molly's building, appraising his chances of making his way inside her flat unseen (_excellent, the neighborhood was virtually crime-free and therefore the chances of a neighbor or copper spotting him was nil_) with part of his mind, while the other part was arguing that he was making a mistake. A huge mistake. That he was mistaking sentiment and lust (a potent, dangerous, _heady_ combination) for common sense and logic (Molly's flat had everything he needed as well as a willing woman to not only fetch him coffee and cigarettes but also to share his body with, a need that she had awakened four months ago and that, to his intense displeasure, seemed unwilling to shut itself back down until it was safe for the two of them to publicly emerge as individuals in a relationship).

In short, he kept telling himself, he was allowing his body's wants to outweigh what he actually needed to make the temporary disappearance of "Derek Jacobs" work.

Still, there he was, fiddling the front lock to the building, making his way inside, then "borrowing" Molly's extra key (_beneath her__ downstairs neighbor's mat, how predictable, he needed to scold her about that_) and easing his silent way into her flat. Locking the door behind him.

Ghosting his way to her bedroom, after first appeasing a displeased Toby (_Molly's male calico, six years o__ld now and rather bad tempered, named after a dog in a cartoon about sentient mice she'd loved as a child_) by handing him a liver snack and scratching him behind the ears when he deigned to allow himself to be touched.

Opening her door, then easing it shut behind him with little more than a soft click of the latch to give his presence away. Seating himself on the edge of her narrow bed. Watching her sleep in the dim light provided by the street-lamp shining through the half-open window (_it was early spring,__ not really warm enough for open windows at night but Molly was rarely bothered by the cold_) and the luminous numbers from the alarm clock on her bedside table.

He hesitated a moment; should he, perhaps, retreat, change his mind before she woke up and the inevitable happened? Or would it be best to simply give in to his body's demands, take her in his arms, cover her body with his and bring them both a precious hour's peace of mind?

Too late; her eyes opened as he gazed down at her, her lips parted in a surprised "O" as she took in the sight of him hovering over her (_sensible Molly, not screaming or thrashing about, immediately recognizing him even in the darkness_). Her hand groped for the switch to her bedside lamp, turning it on and temporarily blinding them both with its dim light. Then she stared at him, her expression a combination of alarm and joy so potent he found himself leaning down and pressing a fervent kiss to her lips.

The kiss intensified as she returned it; while his right hand supported him above her, his left had begun exploring her body, relearning its shape and contours. She'd stiffened as he cupped her breast, then shivered and kissed him even harder, her hands clutching his shoulders with a desperation he mistakenly attributed solely to passion.

Until his hand moved down to her abdomen, intent on reaching her core and setting to work on reassuring her that what had happened between them when he'd left hadn't been some kind of one-off (_he'd reassured her of that already, but he knew Molly, __knew her tendency to question herself ad nauseum, to doubt she was worth his attention no matter how much she craved it, or how deeply she loved him_).

His hand stilled as it discovered the differences in her body, his mind freezing for just an instant before racing to the correct (the_ only_) conclusion. He hadn't immediately detected the increase in breast size, but it was still negligible at this stage of her pregnancy. No, the swell of her abdomen, the slight hardness he detected as his fingers grazed and then splayed themselves against it told the story far more clearly than her breast had.

It also explained the mixture of emotions on her face, the desperation in her kiss.

The look of sadness and resignation in her eyes.

The stillness of her body, the tension as she waited for him to say something.

He cleared his throat. She clearly anticipated recriminations, accusations, or possibly a cold withdrawal on his part. Although he had no intention of reacting in any of those ways, his history, he had to concede, was against him. He would make a terrible father (_although Molly would make an absolutely fantastic mother,_ part of his mind felt constrained to point out to him, completely unnecessarily as he pointed out right back to it); neither of them had planned for such a thing, and his current circumstances certainly didn't lend themselves to any kind of long-term commitment. Which a child certainly was, that irritating part of his mind insisted on reminding him. As if he didn't already _know_ that.

Under other circumstances he might have left her in order to take a few minutes to more fully process the implications of her condition. However, living four months undercover in a world he despised had taught him, painfully and forcefully, the value of the world he'd had to abandon – and the people who inhabited it.

Good people. People like John Watson, still grieving his supposed death. People like his landlady, who'd spent a month at her sister's house in Leeds until returning to Baker Street in order to entice John into showing her how to start up her own blog in Sherlock's defense, which still amazed him when he let it (she'd hated to use the computer for much of anything and to embrace it as a method of easing her grief and doing her part to restore his reputation touched him deeply).

People like the woman staring up at him, clearly fighting tears as she waited for him to speak. To break her heart, to chastise her, to abandon her.

_You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always._

Not this time.

"Your implant dislodged itself, I take it?"

She nodded, apparently not ready to trust her voice to speech. He understood; his own voice was decidedly unsteady as he continued: "When did you…how long have you known?"

Normally he disdained such irrelevant questions; what difference did it make if he knew when she'd discovered her condition? However, he found himself wanting to know how long she'd been living with the knowledge that a child – _his_ child – was developing inside her body.

_His_ child. He felt faint.

"Today. I found out today."

He blinked; his question had been relevant after all. He'd assumed she intended to keep the child (_their_ child), not to terminate the pregnancy, but if she'd just found out then she might not have made a decision yet – although with her strict Catholic upbringing_ (she'd spent her entire education at Catholic schools until medical school and still wore the simple gold cross that her deceased father had given her for her First Holy Communion_) she would more than likely find it difficult to justify a second-trimester abortion (_she'd stopped going to church after her father died, but still clung to many of the superstitions – no, she would call them_ beliefs _– of her childhood and would no doubt want to honor her father's beliefs even if her own__ had changed_). At least, he found himself (irrationally and without having the faintest idea _why_) hoping that would prove to be the case.

"Sherlock? How…how do you…are you upset?" Molly had raised herself to a sitting position, shifting awkwardly as she huddled into the pillows piled against the headboard, still framed by his arm and body poised over hers as if about to strike.

Recognizing the intimidation inherent in his posture, intentional or not, he eased himself back a bit but remained seated on the bed. To rise now would be, in Molly's mind, an indication that he was going to leave, and he wanted to give no incorrect impressions, even though he himself was unsure how to answer her awkwardly phrased question.

"It was an accident," he finally said, a flat statement rather than a question. Still, she nodded as if he needed confirmation of his words. He noted her elevated heartbeat, showing clearly in the pulse at the base of her throat, as well as the paleness of her skin and the hitch in her breathing. She was distressed, but not, he slowly came to realize, because of the pregnancy itself. No, she was strictly concerned with _his_ reaction to her condition.

"You do plan to keep the baby, don't you?" he found himself asking, his voice far more plaintive than he would have believed possible. Far more uncertain. Far more troubled.

Because he'd come to the unexpected realization that he wanted her answer to be _yes_.

She nodded, a quick, sharp pair of nods, eyes lowered, fingers clutching the edges of the sheet that was covering her legs and lower body. "I…I hope you don't…that you didn't…Sherlock," she finally said in a rush (_as she literally forced herself to look him in the eyes, he could see the effort it took for her to do so_): "I know we didn't plan this, I know it was an accident, but I could never…it's our baby, but I know you have so much to do, that even when you get back you'll be…it's all right, I promise, I won't ask you to do anything you don't…you don't want…"

That was enough. He caught her arms and dragged her up to him for a lingering kiss, grateful beyond words that she had no intention of deleting his child from existence before it had even been born. No, he'd never thought about being a father before, except in the abstract, as a possibility in some remote future – and then only after he'd discovered how much he meant to Molly and she to him, four short months ago. "I want to play a role in this," he murmured as the kiss ended. "Please don't exclude me."

As if Molly Hooper would ever be capable of such a thing. Still, it needed to be said; she needed to understand that he wasn't angry with her, that he didn't blame her. Yes, this was an unexpected complication. But not a completely unwelcome one (_it was extremely unsettling to him to realize that, more unsettling than the discovery of her condition itself_). He'd already told Molly he cared for her; surely she understood that that, by extension, he would also care for their child

Yes, this was the worst possible timing; he admitted that as he eased her back down onto her pillows, kissing tears away from her eyes. "I can't be here to help you through this, Molly," he warned her as he settled onto the bed next to her, turning her so she faced him, his hands pressed against her belly, fingertips tracing its new contours lightly. "I'm safely dead, so there's no danger in you telling anyone who the father is, although I do recommend you brace yourself for the day my brother Mycroft comes to call," he added dryly.

Molly stiffened under his hands, eyes widening in sudden fear. "Wh – why?" she squeaked. "He won't want to…to take the baby away from me or anything, will he?"

Sherlock nearly laughed at the picture his mind conjured of Mycroft Holmes badgering Molly into giving up his little brother's child to raise. "No, nothing like that," he assured her with a grin. His grin widened as she relaxed a little, even managed a smile of her own in return. "It's simply likely that he'll demand a paternity test, then run background checks to reassure himself that you aren't after the Holmes' fortune – "

Molly's eyes widened further at that revelation. "There's a Holmes' fortune for me to be after?" she asked, then bit her lip and lowered her eyes in a chagrined expression. "Sorry, that was stupid, of course there is…I've always known you were posh. But I don't want any of your family's money, you know that, right?"

There it was, her uncertainty, her self-doubt rising up to strangle her again. He would have to do something to help prod her confidence back into existence. Ignoring the sardonic interior voice that reminded him he himself had contributed quite a bit over the past five years to destroying said confidence, he snapped: "Don't be ridiculous, Molly. Of course you'll accept whatever money Mycroft offers you. For our child's sake," he added, softening his tone when her expression turned stubborn.

After a very visible interior struggle, her taut features relaxed and she nodded. "Fine. But when you come back…"

"When I come back, it will be a moot point," he said as firmly as he could manage when his mind was distracted by the fact that she wasn't too far along for them to enjoy some of the things his body had been pressing him to do before her "interesting condition" had become the focus of this impromptu visit. "You will move in with me," he decreed.

Molly gaped at him, her expression shocked – no, not simply shocked. For the first time he understood the term "thunderstruck."

_"Not good, Sherlock," _advised some inner voice_ (_sounding very much like John Watson), prompting him to hastily add: "If you want to."

"I think…yes, that would be…" Molly stopped struggling for words (he truly regretted that he was the only one who seemed to tangle her tongue so thoroughly — well, part of him regretted it, the rest of him reveled in the fact that _only he_ had this effect on her) and leaned forward hesitantly, offering her lips for a kiss. One day, he privately resolved as he accepted her offer and pressed his lips to hers, she would be able to initiate intimacy between them. Because one day (_soon_) she would actually believe herself worthy of him.

In the meantime, he would do his best to prove himself worthy of _her_. He would use this short respite from his fugitive life to show her how he felt about her. He'd told her he cared; now he needed there to be no doubts in her mind how _much_ he cared.

His hand returned to its exploration of her body as he settled on his side next to her. He'd just started running the tips of his fingers over her hip, fingers preparing to slide her knickers down her legs, when he remembered that, not only was he still fully dressed, but his alternate persona's heavy work boots were making a hash out of Molly's colorful duvet.

With a muttered swear he pulled himself away from her, ignoring the giggle that escaped her lips as she realized why he'd done so. He felt her eyes on him as he sat up and leaned over to tug impatiently at the knotted laces holding the footwear in place; she wasn't simply watching him, there was something… "Feel free," he advised, pausing in his efforts to give her a wicked smile over his shoulder.

She gasped as their gazes locked, then blushed furiously and lowered her eyes. As he bent back over to deal with his inconvenient footwear once again, he said: "I don't mind, Molly. You don't need permission to touch me, you know. Certainly not when we're about to have – to make love," he corrected himself at the last second. (_Always,_ always _call it "making love" to her_.)

Those words had the desired effect; he felt her fingers on his shoulders, sliding over his back and down to where his hideous t-shirt overhung the tops of his jeans ("Derek Jacobs" would never even _think_ about tucking his shirt in, under any circumstances). Then she was tugging it over his head as he straightened up, pressing her body against his back (his eyes shutting and throat closing with what he refused to identify as emotion at the feel of her breasts and belly against him), raining kisses on the top of his head and holding him tightly.

As her arms crossed over his chest, he slid his hands over hers and held her tightly. She was his anchor; she kept him from floating away, from becoming so ensnared by the underworld he inhabited now that he couldn't find his way back to shore. And yes, dammit, that was an excessively sentimental way of describing their current relationship, but he refused to take it back, even to assuage the cold, logical part of his mind.

_No man is an island, entire of itself…_

A quote, obviously, but by whom? It must have had some bearing on a case or else he'd most likely have deleted it…John Donne, got it. A snatch of poetry from his early education, he knew there was more but that was all he'd retained.

He'd tried to live his life adrift on the tides, to delete all unnecessary elements, but had nevertheless found himself washed up on the shores of sentiment, just like every other ordinary man.

He had ties. Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft. Greg Lestrade. John Watson.

Molly Hooper.

Molly, who was still curled around him, knees pressed into the mattress as he kicked off his boots and methodically began shedding himself of the remainder of his clothing. Molly, whose breasts were still pressed against his back, whose lips he could feel exploring the back and sides of his neck. Molly, who was wringing an appreciative hum from his throat as her hands caressed his chest.

He turned suddenly, hauling her across his lap, tangling his fingers in her hair as his lips sought hers for an urgent kiss. She gave a startled squeak, eyes wide before he saw them flutter closed as she gave herself over to the moment, wrapped her arms around his neck and sifted her fingers through his considerably shorter locks (_did she approve of this new hairstyle, the dark blonde color, the__ short bushy strands so different from his usual dark mop?)._

"It's so different, lighter and shorter, but I like it," she murmured, and he felt his eyebrow quirk itself upward at her seeming ability to divine his thoughts. (_Nonsense, extrasensory perceptio__n is simply a combination of subconscious deduction and, and…_)

His thoughts, which had been speeding along as usual, were suddenly and quite efficiently derailed into a muddled haze as Molly dragged his head down and kissed him with a fierce possessiveness he'd never have credited her with. Certainly not after her hesitant reactions to him scant moments ago. But still, there it was; her mouth pressing against his, her tongue aggressively seeking entrance (_and receiving it, yes, his mouth certainly needed no__ prompting from his still-befuddled brain to open to her silent demand_), one hand sliding down from his cropped mane to ease between their bodies, plucking his semi-hard (and very shortly thereafter, _fully_ hard) penis in her hand, grasping it firmly and eliciting a strangled moan from his mouth.

**oOoOoOoOo**

Molly grinned to herself as Sherlock reacted with what felt like stunned enthusiasm to her sudden boldness as she pulled her mouth away from where it had latched on to his. Her hand still firmly encircled his erection, and she wondered where she'd found the courage to do this when she'd felt so timid and (_admit it, Molly, no sense lying to yourself_) frightened only moments earlier.

It probably had a great deal to do with his unexpected reaction to her pregnancy. She'd expected coldness, fury, accusation or possibly (_worst_ possibility) indifference.

What she'd gotten had been...incredible. Acceptance. A very appealing vulnerability she'd only ever seen in him once, the night before he jumped out of one life and into a very different one. And he'd asked her not to shut him out, said he wanted to be part of this child's life, words she'd not dared to hope to hear from him but that now sang in her heart.

But that was her heart. Her body was responding in its own way to those lovely words; as her hand worked his cock, she moved her head forward and sucked very carefully at his neck, her other hand still firmly clasped to the back of his head, fingers rubbing gently at the cropped curls. It would take some getting used to, this new look of his (not that she was going to get much time, she knew he wasn't back with her because he was finished even if he hadn't come right out and told her so), but she kind of liked it.

Just as she kind of liked – no, wrong, she really, really, _really_ liked – the way his own hands were gliding over her back beneath the oversized t-shirt she'd worn to bed, easing it up her body until suddenly it was over her head and then on to the floor. The way she really, really, _really_ liked the way he dipped his head and nipped his way down her neck to the hollow of her throat, his hands once again tracing their way across her back and down to her hips. The way his breath hitched (she could feel it against her skin as well as hear it) as her thumb brushed across the top of his erection, coming up away wet with a flick of pre-cum.

Even better was the way he suddenly lifted her up (even though it meant letting go of the hard, hot shaft of his penis, which she really didn't like at all), shifting them both until she was lying flat on her bed, sideways to her head- and footboard, legs dangling over the sides as he slipped to his knees between them, intention clear and bright as the sun on an August day.

Then it was her turn to suck in her breath with a sharp indrawn hiss, her fingers digging into the duvet, crumpling it into her fists as his head descended to come to rest between her legs, tongue darting out, tasting her, softly at first, then with a series of bolder strokes that had her crying out his name within seconds, _fastest orgasm ever, had to be a record, for her it was, maybe even a world record…_

He peered up at her with a cocky grin as he pulled his mouth away, waiting until her trembling subsided and her eyes fully focused on his before drawling: "It would appear that the subjective testimony reported in the medical journals and women's magazines regarding heightened sensitivity during the second trimester has some basis in truth after all."

Before she could even begin to come up with a way to respond to that statement he'd risen to his feet, scooping her up in his arms and once again rearranging her on the bed, this time with her head on the pillows and feet pointing toward the footboard. She watched through heavy-lidded eyes, her heart still thudding in her chest, breathing just returning to normal after that incredible (incredibly _quick_) orgasm, watched as he knelt on the bed, as he lowered his body carefully over hers. Waited until he was kissing her neck before blurting out: "When did you ever read a women's magazine?"

She felt his smothered laughter against her neck and flushed; they were about to make love (and probably bring on another one of those second-trimester orgasms she, too, had read about but never actually believed in until, oh, about _two minutes ago_), and she was questioning his reading materials? Really? When would she learn…

"Research," Sherlock was saying as her mortified mind chastised her. His teeth nipped at her earlobe and she moaned in response, her hands automatically clutching at his upper arms as he rested his length between her legs. "For a case." His lips were moving down the column of her throat, wringing more moans from her lips. "Glad I didn't delete the information." His tongue traced the line of her collarbone and she moaned again as his hips shifted, bringing his erection more firmly against her still-throbbing sex.

**oOoOoOoOo**

The speed with which Molly achieved orgasm once he settled his face between her legs astonished him, although he managed to keep that astonishment out of his voice as he spoke to her. She would hear nothing but wry good humor, he knew, just as he knew that there was no reason for him to hide his true feelings on the matter from her.

Nothing but habit. And, perhaps, a bit of self-preservation; she'd already astonished him more times tonight than others had in shared lifetimes.

And now things were back in equilibrium, as he astonished her, in turn, with his choice of research materials. He knew she was embarrassed by the question she'd blurted out to him, especially since it could be taken (not by him) as an indication that she wasn't fully involved in the moment. However, he had quite adequate proof that Molly's mind had, indeed, been fully involved; it was simply her typical (rather endearing) ineptness around him that had brought the question from her mind and out of her mouth at what could be considered an inauspicious moment.

If anything, it increased his arousal. Made him harder. Those damned euphemisms; why did it seem that more and more of them were appropriate means of expressing himself sexually, even within his own mind?

He supposed he could blame Molly; he seemed to spend a great deal of their intimate moments finding and discarding inappropriate ways to express things to her, replacing them with words that wouldn't send her into a paroxysm of self-doubt and worry.

She worried about him enough as it was; she'd gained two pounds since he'd last seen her, and if it wasn't for her pregnancy she'd no doubt have lost that same amount. Plus another two pounds. She wasn't eating or sleeping properly, he could tell, and once they had concluded their current…once they'd finished making love, he corrected himself crossly (_he needed to find a way to train his mind to respond to their intimate interactions much less clinically or one day he would slip and say something Molly really wouldn't respond to very well, especially since her hormones__ were almost certain to make her disposition more volatile_), he would talk to her about it.

Ignoring the irony of Sherlock Holmes, the man who never slept or ate properly whilst on a case (not to mention the numerous other forms of abuse he'd subjected his body to in the past), lecturing another living being on the dangers of abusing their bodies in such ways, he set his mind back to focusing on Molly, on getting her to make more of those delightful sounds she made when he pressed his lips to her neck, when he slid his tongue along her clavicle, when he leaned down and sucked her nipples, one at a time, into his mouth…

Sounds like the groans and sighs she was emitting now. Sounds like the high-pitched squeak she made when he slid his fingers deep inside her, holding himself above her body on his elbow as he ensured that she was ready for him to enter her.

Oh, yes, more than ready, judging by the increased moisture between her legs; not only had he brought her to orgasm within less than 30 seconds of swiping his tongue over her clitoris, but she was clearly well on the path toward that same destination now. He pulled his fingers out, then pressed them deep inside her; feeling her arch against him, hearing her tiny cries of pleasure as he returned to sucking at the base of her throat, knowing she was as ready for him as any woman had ever been for a man…it was time.

He'd held back long enough. He nudged her thighs apart, pulling his fingers out of her and replacing their presence with his heated shaft. (_His cock? Could he ever refer to his own body part in that manner, using a word he'd only ever used as a sneering insult in the past? More importantly, how would _Molly_ feel about it? She'd responded well during their previo__us encounter, when he'd informed her of his intent to "fuck her silly;" would she respond as favorably to additional verbal stimulation? Only one way to find out…)_

"How does that feel?" he whispered in her ear.

She bucked against him as he spoke, gasping, fingers digging into his arms, eyes wide and glazed with what could only be interpreted as pure, animalistic lust.

She reacted quite strongly to verbal stimulation, as strongly as she had before. Hypothesis confirmed. He thrust into her again. "I asked how it felt, Molly," he whispered, feeling a great deal of satisfaction at the guttural moan she gave in response to the sound of her name. "Having my cock inside you." A gasp, the feel of her hands clenching on his biceps. "How," he thrust again, "does," and again, "it," a third time, harder, "_feel_?"

"Bloody marvelous!" she cried, eyes squeezed tight, hands tugging him closer, until their chests mashed together, her slightly mounded abdomen pressing against his flatter anatomical equivalent. "Bloody fucking marvelous, how do you _think_ it feels?!"

She bucked her hips again as if to emphasize her words, her legs wrapping themselves around his waist, ankles locking, wordlessly encouraging him to go deeper, to penetrate her fully, to _bury_ himself inside her.

So he did.

And she was right; it felt bloody fucking _marvelous_. Brilliant, even.

She was close to a second climax, he could feel it building inside her and shifted his hips just enough to bring her over the edge. She cried out his name and he clamped his lips over hers, swallowing the rest of her cries, feeling himself on the brink, then falling over the edge and whispering her own name back at her, mumbling it against her mouth as he shuddered and held her against him.

Afterwards they lay together, her head on his shoulder, his fingers splayed against her abdomen. Their child was growing inside her, and if he'd needed additional incentive to finish his business of dismantling Moriarty's criminal empire, she'd certainly provided it. No, correction, they'd provided it together. He pressed a kiss to the tip of her ear and she turned her head to smile up at him.

He refused to give a name to the sensation that smile evoked in him, the way his heart felt suddenly squeezed, the way his breath caught in this throat. In a few short days "Derek Jacobs" had to make his next appearance, but until then, he could stay right here with the mother of his child-to-be and allow himself to fully process what changes their lives were going to go through over the next five months – and the five months after that, and the five months following those five months...

For the first time since James Moriarty had tried his best to destroy his life, Sherlock Holmes felt like he had a future worth looking forward to.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks to moonmmama for giving this story the once-over and making it even better than I could hope to manage on my own. I cannot stress enough the importance of a beta; that second pair of eyes can be a lifesaver! Enjoy, and be aware that there is, indeed, a third story in the pipeline, entitled "Countermined," where things get...complicated. (Yes, even more complicated than they do in this story!)_


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